


café con miel

by thesilverwitch



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:25:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5986129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverwitch/pseuds/thesilverwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marc wasn’t the type to approach strangers at his coffee shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	café con miel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wortfee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wortfee/gifts).



> happy birthday [nea](http://terfinha.tumblr.com/)!!!! you're one of the most wonderful people i've had the pleasure of befriending the past couple of months. i hope that today is an amazing day and that you have a wonderful time because you deserve nothing else. i hope you like this little fic i wrote, it's a bit silly but it's very happy and sweet, just like you. also, thank you [julija](https://neyvenger.tumblr.com/) for the quick beta! ;)
> 
> for the prompt “you got stood up on a date at the coffee shop i work in here, let me get you a drink on the house au”

Marc wasn’t the type to approach strangers at his coffee shop.

He was not an anti-social person by any means, but working for a trendy coffee shop in a hip neighborhood in Barcelona meant that there wasn’t a lot of time to waste. In turn, this meant there wasn’t a lot of time to spend talking to their customers, even the ones he recognized as regulars. A few words shared over the counter were all he had to give, even if sometimes there were lists of questions lined on his tongue, ridiculous stuff like ‘I’ve seen you drawing by the window a couple of times — do you think I could see those one of these days?’ and ‘what’s the song you’re always mumbling under your breath when you come into the store?’ - that he kept stored somewhere quiet in his brain.

Their customers didn’t seem to mind. Most of them smiled at him, thanked them for the coffee and left without even sitting down. Only a few would try to start conversations that Marc half-heartedly engaged in, until he had to rush off somewhere else.

It can be said, to the fairest degree of truth, that Marc never talked to people unless they spoke to him first.

But of course, there was alway room for exceptions.

The man entered the café a little before eight, more than an hour and a half before _Vivien’s Café con Miel_ closed. Marc noticed him immediately. He was the type of person that your eyes just couldn’t miss. Not tall, but so handsome that even modeling catalogs were unworthy of his image. He had his hair pushed to the side in a way that looked too stunning to be casual and he wore fitted jeans and a simple white button-up. He was dressed to impress, but, then again, someone that gorgeous would still be dressed to impress if they wore a garbage bag.

In the privacy of this thoughts, Marc congratulated the lucky person who scored a date with someone who looked so effortlessly attractive, while the last person Marc made bedroom eyes at was his seventy-year-old landlady when he needed a rent extension. 

His entire body shuddered at the recollection of that eventful evening. It had been seven months ago and he hadn’t missed rent by a single day since. Some victories weren’t worth the battles.

Mr. Chanel Underwear Spokesperson stood at the entrance of the coffee shop for a couple of minutes as his eyes inspected the room from top to bottom. Marc kept one eye on him and the other on the espresso machine. The room was full of their usual post-work crowd, but evidently whoever Prince Handsome was searching for wasn’t there as he took an empty seat by the window when the couple previously holding the spot left.

After a couple more minutes, he went up to the counter and ordered a _café con leche_ and a small chicken pastry. He smiled at Marc when he handed him the money and told him to keep the change, but his eyes were distant, as if he wasn’t there at all. Marc didn’t hold it against him. The guy was clearly on a date and a little nervous because of it. It was fine. Just because Mister Universe didn’t have time to flash Marc a genuine smile while giving him a two euro tip for a chicken empanada and some coffee didn’t mean that Marc was going to sulk for the rest of his shift.

Because he wasn’t. 

_Adulthood._

The changes it did to a person.

“You’re staring,” said someone to his left.

Marc turned to glare at his coworker. “I have functional eyes. That’s what functional eyes do.”

“No, eyes see. You, my dearest German toy soldier, are staring so hard that you’re going to set his shirt on fire.” Bartra turned to look at the Prince From a Distant Kingdom. “Not that I’d complain if that were to happen. It’d be quite a sight. You know what? Carry on with your intense robot stare. Set all the shirts on fire. It will be fun.”

Marc rolled his eyes in the most dramatic, petulant way possible, which was quite dramatic and petulant as he was, well, himself. “He’s on a date,” he scoffed.

Bartra set about serving four espressos at the same time. “Who knows, maybe the date will go horribly. We could serve whoever he’s seeing a terrible coffee.”

“Stop trying to play match-maker. When has that ever worked for you?”

“I’ve been playing match-maker way before you started working here and I’ve always produced awesome results. You know my name, not my story.” Bartra moved his index finger in a ‘z’ motion and then snapped his fingers, making Marc and two customers burst out laughing.

“I think I know more than enough about you,” Marc replied and went back to work.

As Marc served people hot, delicious coffee and homemade pastries, Hottie McTottie got out his phone and started playing a game on his phone. After a few minutes of working with angles and using all the mirrors in the shop to his advantage, Marc figured out it was Angry Birds.

A fan of the old-school classics then. Marc always fancied those.

Coffees served and levels beat, the clock kept ticking. Eight gave away to eight thirty, gave away to nine. The aroma of roasted coffee filled the café as the door stopped swinging with the rush of customers, and still Young Rodrigo Santoro’s date refused to show up.

By this point, Marc’s staring had gone from detached curiosity to a vivid interest and there were numerous bruises on his shins as evidence to the preoccupation of a certain intrusive Spanish man. 

“He’s been stood up. Go comfort him or I will,” Bartra said.

“Aren’t you straight?” Marc asked, squinting at his friend.

Bartra shrugged. “It’s good to keep an open mind.”

“Whatever you say,” Marc replied, shaking his head. “Anyway, his date will probably show up soon. No one in their right mind would stand up someone who looks like a Greek God.”

“‘Greek God’ huh? That’s going in the group chat,” Bartra replied, so Marc took away his phone and told him to go clean some tables.

Regardless, it was true; no one would stand up someone like this guy, unless there was something wrong with him. Maybe he was a serial killer and whoever he was dating finally noticed it and used this date as an opportunity to ditch town and before they know it, the police would be knocking down their door to arrest the guy. Or maybe his date had gotten into an accident and no one had thought to notify the guy? Both options sounded awful, although, in the privacy of his own mind, Marc couldn’t deny that the latter excuse was a lot more appealing to him than the former.

“Does he look like a serial killer to you?” Marc asked Bartra.

“Nah. He’s a softie,” Bartra replied. “He probably owns a golden retriever and volunteers at a soup kitchen every month.”

Tilting his head to the side to better look, Marc realized Bartra was, probably for the first time in his life, right. McDreamy _did_ look like he owned a golden retriever and volunteered at a soup kitchen every month. Although tonight he was tapping an angry rhythm against the surface of the wooden table before him, evidently bothered that he had been stood up, but not so bothered that he would go on a murdering rampage afterward, which put to ease Marc’s serial killer theory. 

The clock continued to tick. Marc headed for the door and turned around the OPEN sign.

“Have a good night,” he told Bartra as his co-worker got ready to leave.

“Go talk to him,” Bartra shout-whispered. 

Marc flipped him off beneath the counter.

It was a Wednesday evening and save for Too Hot For School and two couples, the shop was empty, so Marc could easily close it by himself. Chairs were pushed up onto the tables and a broom was brought out.

Five minutes before the shop closed, the two couples left, leaving only Marc and the stranger in the shop. It was then that Marc broke his personal rule of not talking to strangers.

“Vanilla, chocolate or blueberry?” he asked from behind the counter.

It took Real-life Adonis a couple of seconds to realize he was the one being spoken to. “Sorry?” he asked.

Marc repeated himself. “What muffin flavor do you like? I’m partial to the blueberry ones, but most people will give an arm and a leg for chocolate. We also have some red velvet cake left, but that’s been there since the early morning. The muffins were baked during the afternoon.” The guy stared at Marc like he was speaking in another language, which, knowing Marc, could be true. “I just spoke to you in Spanish right? Not German? Or do you not speak Spanish?” Marc asked, feeling more awkward by the second.

“You spoke in Spanish and I also speak Spanish.” The World’s Most Beautiful Man flashed Marc a warm smile, this time looking Marc directly in the eye. If Marc were in a Jane Austen book, he’d swoon. “And blueberry sounds wonderful.”

“Blueberry it is,” Marc said with a lot more conviction than he felt at the present moment. He got out two plates and two blueberry muffins, picking the largest one for the stranger. “It’s a bit too late for coffee, but I can make us some hot chocolate?” 

The guy chuckled. “Sure,” he said. “And what do I owe you for these?” he asked while Marc prepared their drinks. 

“Nothing. It’s on the house,” Marc replied. 

There was a pause. “Do you often give strangers food on the house?”

“Not often, but you seemed like you’d appreciate it.” Marc carried over their muffins and their hot chocolate. “Been here for a while,” he said as casual as he could play it. If the stranger didn’t want to talk about his failed date, Marc wouldn’t breach the subject again, but mentioning the elephant in the room seemed the easiest way to break the ice.

“Yeah,” the son of Apollo scratched the back of his neck. “My friends set me up. Said they were tired of seeing me have an ‘existential crisis after every thoughtless hook-up’ and that going on a real date would help. I thought the whole thing was stupid at first but then, I don’t know, I kinda got my hopes up? And now that I’ve said all this I realized that it’s way too much information and that you were doing a stranger a pity favor. I’m sorry. This has got to be the most awkward conversation ever for you.”

“No, please, it’s fine,” Marc rushed in to say. “I was the one who asked.”

Apollo leaned back on his chair. “That you were. And you didn’t even ask me my name first.”

Marc nearly choked on his blueberry muffin. “I’m sorry,” he said after he’d finished wiping away a few stray crumbs. “What’s your name?”

“Rafael, just Rafa to my friends. Yours?”

“Marc-André, just Marc to my friends.”

Rafa smiled at his line as they shook hands over the table. Marc took a second to register the moment and properly place the name to the face, gently pushing aside all the nicknames he’d created in sparks of inspiration to make space for the real name, but not making any effort to substitute them. They were still apt, after all.

Taking a bite out of his muffin, Rafa moaned out loud in a way that did nothing to help the increasing pink stain on Marc’s cheeks. “This is delicious,” he said.

“Thanks,” Marc replied as took another sip of hot chocolate.

“You baked these?” Rafa asked, his eyes opened so wide they looked as if they’d pop out at any second. 

“I do some of the early afternoon baking, yes.”

“Wow,” Rafa said and then took another bite. “You’re amazing.”

Marc looked down at the table and mumbled another, “Thank you.”

At least Bartra wasn’t there to watch his sorry figure. Marc was actually decent at talking to people he liked, but compliment him on something he cared about and he dissolved into a puddle of goo.

“So, Marc, now that I’ve confessed the sad state of my romantic life, is there anything you’d like to share? Maybe make the odds even? Because I’m feeling way too lonesome in my embarrassment right now.”

Marc shook his head as he laughed. “At least you have a romantic life. I don’t even remember the last time I went on a proper date.” Marc paused. “Actually, I do. It was while I was still back in Germany.” Ouch. That had been a while.

“What’s the problem? Girls don’t like the German accent?” Rafa asked.

Marc shrugged. “I’m getting a Master’s in Business while working full-time so I don’t become homeless. Dating has, unfortunately, been placed on the bottom of my priorities list for the moment. Although even if I had the time, I probably wouldn’t be talking to any girls,” Marc said because even though all that he’d said was true—even though he was basically running on jet fuels all the time and he had no time for dating of any kind—he still wanted this man—who was essentially still a stranger, who was essentially a fairytale of his own kind—to know that he was available.

“Well, that’s good to know,” Rafa replied. “Not the you’re super busy part, the other part,” he quickly added.

Marc smiled into his hot chocolate, feeling sixteen and giddy again. “Did your date say anything about why they couldn’t come or are they just an asshole?” he asked. It wouldn’t do him any good if Rafa’s date suddenly showed up with an armful of puppies that they’d saved from a burning building.

“Nope, not a word. It was a blind date. Maybe he got scared.”

“That explains so much and anyway, it’s totally his loss,” Marc said before he realized the implications of his words. “I mean, I’m not trying to be presumptions or anything—“

“Oh, please, be presumptions all you want. You’re like, ten levels above the guys I usually see.”

Marc’s eyebrows grazed his airline. “Really?”

Rafa laughed. “Really,” he said. “I meet most of them at clubs when I’m not usually thinking with my brain. Some are alright, superficial but not complete idiots. Some others are outright weirdos though. I’m ninety-percent sure the last guy I saw was a furry.”

Marc’s eyebrows climbed so high they entered another dimension. “ _Really_?”

“Oh yeah. Fun time I had telling my friends why _that_ particular relationship didn’t last.”

Marc just couldn’t help it — he burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he said between gasps for breath. “That sounds awful, it does.”

“Do it. Laugh at my misery. Enjoy what I can’t.”

“I’m sure you’ll look back on it later and laugh about it.”

At that, Rafa cracked a smile. “I know. I just can’t believe I dated a furry for two whole weeks before I realized something was up.”

“ _Two weeks_?”

“He didn’t bring it up until then!”

Marc took out some tissues to wipe his eyes with. “How did you find out in the end?” he asked after he had calmed down.

“One of the rooms at his place was always locked and he never let me in. One day, he accidentally—or, at least, I want to believe it was an accident—he left the door open while he went out to run some errands and I got a glimpse of what was either a fur suit or a gigantic stuffed toy. I decided that was my moment to grab my stuff and dash out of there. Also his breath stank of garlic. All the time! Even when he hadn’t had any garlic in his meal.”

“That sounds genuinely awful,” Marc said, trying not to laugh. He meant it. If that had happened to him he’d have avoided dating anyone for at least a month.

“It was.” Rafa flashed him a bashful smile.

“Well, since you told me to be presumptuous, I want to tell you straight up that I’m not a furry and you don’t have to worry about finding a furry suit if you ever come to my house.”

Rafa grinned at behind his cup of hot chocolate, leaning back on his chair to better appraise him, attention in which Marc reveled in. “Didn’t you say you were too busy to date?” Rafa asked.

“Yeah, and I rarely ever talk to customers either, much less offer them muffins and hot chocolate. There are exceptions to every rule.”

“And I’m that exception?” Rafa asked, grinning at him.

Marc was already grinning back before he even realized what he was doing. He’d missed flirting with someone he genuinely liked; that little thrill you got alongside the confident boost. “I would love it if you were,” he said.

“Bake me some more of these muffins and I swear—“ one of Rafa’s feet kicked Marc’s beneath the table “—you’ll never get rid of me.”

And that would be fine by Marc.


End file.
